tender shepherd, count your sheep
by little red after the wolf
Summary: AU It's not supposed to happen but he's already all she knows and it's too late to save herself now. — thundercest; deaf!Phoebe, trans!Billy, gay!Cherry, atheist!Max


A prayer, lip gloss, a white dress, a Peter Pan collar; there are stories to be told in her hands today. Her phone is frozen at dawn but the sky whispers in hues of blue. Seven AM without him is not ideal.

Dried throat opens until she can faintly hear the sound of her own voice. It always takes more time in the in the morning, with fogged ears and still fingers. "Max!" There aren't footsteps for her but he crashes through vibrations, half dressed with wild hair. His fingers read comfort in her silence.

"Do you need me to make breakfast, Phoebe?" No, she doesn't need him to. Still, she nods and smiles. Dark eyes linger on the Peter Pan collar but she'd never guess his hunger.

She doesn't sign a thank you and he doesn't care.

* * *

Breakfast is lethargic with Nora and Beatrice. There's a hoodie too big, hiding any sort of curves or trace of puberty on B and a bow on Nora's head. It's just a typical Tuesday morning but it burns Phoebe up anyways. It's not them neglecting to sign a single thing to her. It's not like the silence is new to her.

"Nora, we should go now ... To catch the bus." They're gone in a blur of swept up backpacks and silent waves with lips she didn't read anyways. Max doesn't say anything to stop them. He never cares.

They finish eating in silence and unspoken signs. She almost thinks they should learn to communicate. Then again, what do you say to the brother who does nothing but help you?

(Thank you is a good start but it's not what she wants.)

He doesn't move to clean up their dishes. "We need to go now," he signs, "no, we don't have time to clean up."

It's a rush they don't need to be in but she agrees to it anyways. There's something reassuring about the slight sound of rushing wind when he speeds them down a long, windy road to school in the shitty minivan that he tells everyone is his. Maybe it's the looks they share at the stoplight before he slams on the pedal and runs it even though they won't be late.

Neither of them sign a word to each other at those lights but it's the calmest they ever are, with gentle curls to their lips and no fire to their eyes. The absence of antagonizing each other is strange but she craves it.

She doesn't let herself think she loves it because she doesn't need him at all in those looks.

"Hurry up, slow ass," he signs. It's going to go away. It always does.

* * *

School comes with arms around her—Cherry; his fingers over her locker, she doesn't need this help but she won't say a word; a whistle she can't hear that he sends a glare; and a promise between his lips just whisper loud enough for her to hear. "I'll walk you to class." He always does. She doesn't need him to reassure her anymore than she needs his hand to grip her wrist. But she still doesn't reject it.

"I got you a Red Bull, Phoebe," Cherry says, her fingers moving almost too fast.

It's burning her throat and waking her up in three seconds she doesn't count. Max grabs it from her and presses it to his lips. "Your lip gloss is kiwi mango today," he mutters against her ear. The sound doesn't reach her and he pushes it back to her hands.

He's gone with his favorite flannel on her shoulders.

Cherry walks her to class today.

* * *

There's a sub in her fourth period—Ms. Wellerstein or something like that—and Beatrice doesn't care until she calls roll. "Beatrice Thunderman."

"My name isn't Beatrice," slips out of her mouth before she can stop it, "it's B."

Ms. Wellerstein smiles like plastic Christmas lights and corrects herself. It's still not right. "B" isn't what she wants. "B" isn't who she is. Neither is Beatrice.

(Who are you then, Thunderman?)

"Nora Thunderman."

One hand shoots into the air and the other is over Beatrice's wrist, gentle and warm. She doesn't know what's wrong but all that really matters is that something is. "It's okay, sis." Beatrice almost cries at that word and she can't figure out why.

"I know, Nora," she breathes.

The hand doesn't retract. It just tightens. "You sound like Max now." Maybe that's what she wants.

* * *

There are eyes—light eyes, hungry in a different way—on her all throughout English and she almost shivers in her seat. It chills her spine but she pretends she doesn't notice. There's no reason to feel this bad about it. Someone staring at her isn't a crime. People stare at each other all the time.

A little voice in the back of her head (or a hand, she's not sure what to call it) reminds her that Max hates it when they stare at her.

He would grab her and pull her away if he saw. She wouldn't protest. Phoebe doesn't even know how to. He just drags her along and she has to let him. He's not in charge of her ... She doesn't want him to be.

(Some part of her thinks he might be after the years of depending on him.)

The eyes eat her up but don't skin her alive and she never looks back to see if it's a girl or a boy. It doesn't matter either way. Max will never allow it.

* * *

Cherry signs into the skin of her arm, chatting away their lunch. He doesn't come running for her and she thinks he's still mad from this morning. Mad that she's deaf? No. He _can't_ be mad that she's deaf. He doesn't get to be mad about that. It's been that way their entire lives.

"Pheebs, can you believe she likes me?"

She almost misses the question. "No, Cherry, I can't ... Kidding. I told you she did." Her insides are on fire but she smiles anyways. It's supposed to be better at school.


End file.
